Kansas City Pretty
by T-R-Us
Summary: AU. 5upernatural has seen a successful three-year run as "America's Favorite Boy Band." Gabriel wonders if maybe they should start getting used to the idea of thinking of themselves as second or third.


**Title: **Kansas City Pretty  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Genre: <strong>AU, Gen  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None

**Summary: **_5upernatural_ has seen a successful three-year run as "America's Favorite Boy Band." Gabriel wonders if maybe they should start getting used to the idea of thinking of themselves as second or third.

**Author's Notes: **Way back in April or May of 2011, some of the lovely folks of the Deancastiel chat (myself, 9-of-clubs, c00kie, bhsbaby and casatthedisco) got together to collaborate on what would essentially be a Boy Band AU in five parts. Over the months since then, interest has started to decline so I'm posting this bad boy without its accompanying Dean-Cas-Sam-Balthazar bits. (Perhaps one day?) Here's hoping it works.

* * *

><p>The hotel elevator is playing a tinkly, muzak version of 'Kansas City Pretty' and Gabriel is really only surprised by this because he didn't think they made elevator versions of songs that had only been out for a year and a half. Granted, it was top of the charts for most of that time period, but still <em>elevator <em>music? **  
><strong>  
>Probably there is a cheque somewhere with his name on it that bears the royalties for this, but given Zachariah's handling of the group, it's just as likely that there isn't.<p>

He hums along for a few bars, scarcely conscious of the fact that he's doing so and the song ends on the sharp 'ding' that accompanies the elevator doors sliding open.

The same song is playing in the lobby, the real version this time, and Gabriel would probably mind it more if he wasn't already planning on strolling straight to the bar and drinking the damn bubblegum pop lyrics past recognition.

There's a number of fans milling about, of course. Their hotel information isn't really a secret in this too-small city and there's enough of them that he almost considers breaking out into the ridiculous choreography that accompanies the awful song just for the splash it'll make but after what's just gone down upstairs, he _really_ needs that drink.

The concierge is quick to notice his arrival –unannounced because storming off after a fight with your band and then calling the front desk to alert security means losing some of the dramatic flair involved with storming off in the first place – and hurries to his side. Gabriel has to commend the man, Felix, as his brass name tag proclaims him to be, on actually being faster than the fans. Who, by reputation, are ravenous.

He doesn't mind signing a few autographs and taking a few pictures though, enjoys it really, and says as much when Felix attempts to escort him to the bar. His craving for a line of shots is lost momentarily thanks to his general desire to be contrary.

"It's a matter of security, sir," the concierge is trying to explain as the nearest of the fangirls lets out an unpleasantly shrill squeal and hurries in their direction. "You have to – "

What exactly it is that he has to do is lost as Gabriel elbows him out of the way and turns to smile at the fan who is, of course, attracting the attention of the rest of the hoard. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile as the girl, who can't be more than fourteen or fifteen stares up at him in awe. "Hi, there, cutie." The greeting is accompanied with a flirty head nod that has the kid quaking in her running shoes.

"H-hi," she stutters back at him, and Gabriel notices for the first time that she's holding something. "Hi," the girl repeats and, realizing that she probably isn't going to be forthcoming with what she's got in her hands, he reaches out to take it from her.

It's one of those glossy publicity photos, the kind they've been selling in the lobby since the band arrived, a still from a music video they must have done at least two years ago. Gabriel can't remember exactly which song it was for, but he does remember how hot those clingy, plastic outfits were. Despite that and the fact that they're probably working their way through miserably stupid choreography, the faces looking up at him from the photo are all smiling. Well, except Sam, but his unfortunate haircut of old certainly brings a smile to present-day Gabriel's face.

"You know, Dean actually ripped his pants when were shooting this one. He jumped up to do one of those barrel rolls and tore a hole from crotch to ass crack." The story's not true. Not specifically, anyway, since there's certainly been times when they've all done damage to ridiculous costumes in the name of equally ridiculous dance moves, but it serves its purpose in brightening the girl's face. And in creating humiliating fodder for hundreds of chat rooms, message boards and fan pages. Dean's going to start getting hideous plastic replacement pants in the mail.

Winking at the girl, he produces a sharpie from seemingly nowhere with a theatrical flourish –really his pocket, but carrying a permanent marker and knowing a few sleight of hand magic tricks just goes with the territory – and scrawls a messy 'Gabe' near himself on the page. By the time he's finished, there's a something of a crowd forming around him and he can see Felix still hovering in the background, a look of chagrin plastered across his face.

He smiles and offers the concierge a smug little wave before moving on to address the rest of his fans. Surrounded by adoring females, he can't help but forget the fight that sent him down here in the first place.

It's not until about another twenty minutes later that the group has thinned out enough for him to start thinking about that bar stool with his name on it, but Gabriel's sunny smile never once falters as he poses for cell phone photos, scribbles his name down a dozen more times and even speaks to someone's best friend on the phone. He's not stupid, he knows that a number of the girls crowding him would have rather been pushing the boundaries of Dean or Castiel, hell, even Sam and Balthazar, but there are just enough wearing "I 3 GABE" t-shirts to keep his ego unbruised. Mostly.

The last three girls giggle and flirt as they pose with him, pausing after after each photo to swap out whoever is taking the picture and finally, Gabriel announces that he hopes to see everyone at tonight's concert and takes his leave.

To say that Felix looked relieved by this would be an understatement, as the concierge takes control and finally has his way of escorting him towards the bar. Gabriel is surprised by the man's apparent nervousness though and wonders why he didn't bother to call for the security personnel staying with the band. That is, until a note is slipped into his hand that has Balthazar's name written neatly across it and the concierge asks him to pass it along because he's a "huge fan."

Well. It takes all sorts.

Gabriel pockets the note and gives Felix a friendly thump on the shoulder as he passes from the concierge's jurisdiction into the realm of the moonshine.

The hotel bar is entirely devoid of life, unsurprising since it's not even noon. Not even noon. Funny how that can be used to apply to the fact that Dean and Balthazar can't even get along in the three or four hours that they'd both been awake. If anyone's got something to say about Gabe imbibing so early in the not-quite-afternoon, they can take that up with Punch and Judy upstairs. He already knows that drinking as a coping mechanism is how you get yourself into bigger messes, thanks, but he's not particularly interested in listening to reason at the moment. It's not like anyone else is, either.

"Will you two just cut this crap out already? I thought we were over this. We have a goddamn concert tonight and you two are fighting like spoiled little girls." His own words echo in his head as he plunks down onto one of the empty bar stools. If the barkeep is surprised to him, he doesn't say anything as he fetches Gabriel's Jack on the rocks and actually seems to disappear, leaving the singer to his thoughts.

Which is half the problem, really, because thoughts? Don't need 'em.

He holds the lowball glass up in a mock salute to no one in particular and downs a respectable sip of whiskey, savoring the slight burn.

They started this thing four years ago. One year of a slow climb to fame, flaunting themselves in the malls of America, before finding a spot on its radio stations and lastly weaseling into the nation's hearts, then three smoother ones, sticking it out together on top of the world. "In year five of 5upernatural's existence, things started to fall apart." He can already hear the VH1 _Where Are They Now? _special.

At a bar.

Well, he is anyway. At the rate they're going, Cas is gonna have a spectacular solo career based on fan power alone, little Sammy-boy who is not quite so little anymore is gonna have some kind of workout series. And Dean and Balthazar are gonna get slapped with restraining orders and tossed into the slammer if they want to keep up their brawling in public places.

He's reminded of that photo he signed this morning, the first of many and all of them with one key thing in common: they all show a group of five guys who look like they're having the time of their lives.

Gabriel wants to be a part of _that_ group. That _other_ 5upernatural, the one that the press sees as a bunch of people who just genuinely enjoy spending time together and who happen to sing some terrible songs at the same time.

Well, it's been a good four years, boys. Guess even made-up families can't keep their shit together.

He downs the rest of the jack and places the glass down on the counter with a thunk.


End file.
